To kill your prince
by NaryaRingofFire
Summary: It is 209 AC, the tourney of Ashford meadow. It starts with feasting and drinking and laughter and it ends with Baelor Targaryens death at his brother Maekars hands, an event that will haunt the younger prince for life. But told from a different perspective there is more to Ashford meadow than meets the eye and Maekar might not be a kinslayer after all.


To kill your prince

Lord Lyonel Baratheon sat in his tent, glumly starring at the bottom of his wine cup. He really tried not to drink too much, but damn it, one more cup would not make the difference tomorrow. He shouted for his squire and the boy ran to fetch him some more wine.

It was all Maekar Targaryens fault, the Laughing Storm brooded, while draining the cup once more. The day had been a good day on the whole, none of his opponents much of a challenge, but his own performance had been solid and he hadn´t expected the first day of a tourney that big to be a great deal anyway. No, he was quite content with the tourney, the weather and his horse so far. What he wasn´t content with at all was Maekar Targaryen.

The prince of Summerhall.

Summerhall, the summer seat of house Targaryen, a mere days ride away from Storms End.

"That is an insult, your Grace", Lyonels Lord Father had boomed twenty years ago, when King Daeron had presented the plan to him. "Summer seat! Seven hells, if you wanted a summer seat you would go to the Reach, with their endless sun and fresh peaches and whatnot. You want to stop my Marcher Lords from rebelling against the union with Dorne, say so at least" Daeron hadn´t answered immediately and that had sent Raymond Baratheon over the edge.

"Very well", he had hissed. "Your Grace will do what pleases Your Grace anyway. But I am the Lord of the Stormlands and if anyone thinks he can come and command my bannermen around, he will see my fury, Targaryen or not" "It is not my intent to lessen your power", Daeron had replied stiffly. "You will get used to the arrangement Lord Baratheon, as will we"

Lyonel had only been a boy back then, sitting by his fathers side, excited to be allowed to a meeting with the king himself. Now, twenty years later his father was long dead, he himself was the Lord of Storms End and he hadn´t gotten used to Summerhall at all.

Maekar Targaryen that humorless, annoying prince was always busy trying to tell **Lyonels** bannermen what to do and pushing himself into everything, no matter how clear it was that it just concerned the Stormlands.

When Maekar (Lyonel never bothered calling that prick prince in his thoughts) had come over after the last joust to discuss taxes, Lyonel just couldn´t stand it anymore. Seven hells, this was a tourney, not a council meeting! How could any man want to talk about taxes that day?

"Get out of here, boy! That´s the Laughing Storms tent you are entering!"

"I am prince Aegon, son of Maekar Targaryen and demand to speak with your Lord" Lyonel lifted his head in surprise. The boy saying these words sounded no older than ten and Lyonel tensed at the mentioning of Maekar Targaryen. Only the Gods knew how this man had managed to father not only one, but four sons and two daughters also! Lyonel couldn´t imagine the man in bed, as stiff and aloft as he always behaved. He himself only had two sons and one daughter; another grudge held against Maekar.

"I don´t think my Lord wants to speak with one of prince Maekars sons at the moment", Beric Caron answered briskly. Lyonel agreed with his squire and decided to give the guards a good piece of his mind. If his squire had to deal with this, then for some unforgivable reason they must have let that boy through and he wouldn´t let that slide. He was about to rise, when Beric suddenly cursed and a little bald boy appeared right in front of Lyonel.

"Please, Mylord, I need your help", he pleaded, out of breath. Lyonel snorted. "If you really are Prince Aegon why don´t you go to your father? I have no business helping you out of some mess" "Please", the boy repeated, with eyes great as plates. "It´s about a Trial by Seven"

Lyonel sat back in his chair. Calling the guards didn´t seem that important anymore. This could become a story to interesting to miss and he was fairly sure now that the boy was in fact Aegon. He had seen him a few times at tourneys, Storms End and Summerhall and it seemed to fit, though he wondered what had happened to the boys hair. "There has been no Trial by Seven for years, boy", he said, fascinated and taken aback at the same time. "Why should there be now?" "Because of my brother Aerion", Aegon grimaced.

Lyonel listened intensely as he told him about a hedge knight, who had attacked a prince because of a girl and how he had been sentenced to a Trial by seven. "My brother thinks Ser Duncan will never find six champions. Please Mylord, you are a great jouster, the greatest I´ve ever seen..."

Lyonel Baratheon burst into laughter. "You are collecting champions for the hedgeknight, not for your brother? How did that happen?" "I hate Aerion", Aegon stated without any emotion. "And I like Dunk...Ser Duncan, I mean. Can you help me please?"

Lyonel was stunned. A Trial by Seven! That was maybe his only chance to ever fight in one. But for a hedge knight? No Lord Paramount would ever do that and while Lyonel despised most of the other Lord Paramounts, he also had an eye on his reputation, which would be irretrievably damaged by risking his life for a hedge knight, who had foolishly attacked a prince. He could not and would not do that. Still, he couldn´t quite shake the fascination the idea of a Trial by Seven gave him.

"Let´s see", he said, half sure that he would sent Aegon away after this question, Trial by Seven or not. There were just some things you didn´t do as Lord Paramount, if you wanted to be respected. "Who would I fight against?"

"My brother Aerion, of course", the boy replied eagerly. "And Daeron too, and my father I think and they will use the Kingsguard, so..."

Lyonel Baratheon wasn´t listening anymore. The boys father! Prince Maekar would be fighting. That was his chance to show that princeling that the Lord of Storms End wasn´t easily controlled. One good hit to the head, maybe two and Maekar would be too busy with headaches and being humiliated for the next weeks to bother him. Seven hells, it was a Trial by Seven, he could even kill… no, better not. Maekar was just the fourth son of the king, but killing him wouldn´t be that clever anyway and would worsen the position of the Stormlands considerably.

No, just show him his place in front of everyone. A quick lesson in humility. Lyonel Baratheon hadn´t felt that excited for weeks.

"Count me in!", he interrupted the boy in whatever he was saying at the moment. "What?… I mean, Mylord, what…?" " I´m on your side. I will fight for your damn hedge knight. Do you want me or not?"

The boys grin nearly split his face. "Yes, of course, thank you Mylord, you really are a true knight, I..." "That´s enough, you can go" Lyonel watched him leaving the tent happily and felt a little sting. I´m only doing it to shame your father, he thought. But the regret was quickly overwhelmed by his need for vengeance.

He slammed his cup on the table, called for Beric to look after his armor and went for his sword and battle axe. He always sharpened them himself and as he took care of the axe, he almost began to laugh. Maekar would find a hard opponent in him. The prince would finally learn his lesson, and it was all made possible by a hedge knights love-folly. That story was way to good not to be a song.

When Lyonel finally found himself on the field he was already annoyed and stressed. The morning hadn´t really been like he had imagined it in his euphoria last night. Damn that hedge knight, he should have known that it would not be easy for the man to find six knights foolish enough to be his champions. Two times he had seen his chances of vengeance slip away and it certainly hadn´t helped his mood.

And now that he had knighted the damn Fossoway and given up his unofficial leadership of the team to Baelor Targaryen, who had totally stolen him the show, that prince wanted to tilt with tourney lances.

Lyonel grudgingly saw the advantage, but… did he want to kill Maekar or not? He didn´t know and he knew that he had to decide that matter before charging on the prince, or the joust would just be a mess.

Some of his lords seemed to think he would kill the princeling. The Stormlords had been asking him all morning why he was fighting for the honor of a hedge knight in the company of men with broken legs, only one eye, or still half squires. Lyonel had finally dropped Maekars name to shut them up and really, from there on the questions had stopped and been replaced by winks and hushed well-wishes.

Lyonel tried not to think about that too much. It was his Lords right to have their own opinions. He almost missed the best moment to secure himself the place opposite Maekar, but with a bit of shouting and cursing he sent Rhysling away and got the place he wanted.

Maekars armor looked quite good and his mace gained some respect even from the Laughing Storm, but Lyonel knew how to wield a battle axe or a lance better then most men. It would suffice against Maekar.

And then it began.

He kicked his horse into a gallop. Maekar came nearer with incredible speed, but at the same time he didn´t seem to move at all. Time always worked for him when he was jousting. At moments like this Lyonel Baratheon disappeared, like he had never existed. He was the Laughing Storm now, no more, no less.

He aimed for Maekars head first, then lowered his lance and knocked him right of the horse.

It worked, was his only thought, when time started to flow back into its normal pace. It worked, just like with the green boys. Our fierce prince.

He saw Maekar rolling in the dirt and laughed. That was when the Kingsguard attacked him.

Lyonel couldn´t see which of them it was, but one moment of not paying enough attention and the Kingsguards horse was crashing into his. He held himself in the saddle and lurched at the man with his splintered lance. Damn tourney lances, he should have paid more attention to not breaking it.

The horses screamed, the viewers too, Maekar seemed to be miles away and the Laughing Storm had enough of this. One quick look around showed him the hedge knight lying in the mud. Damn it! If he wanted to get to Maekar before this fool died and ended the trial, he had to end the Kingsguard quickly.

He threw the useless lance away and charged, battle axe in hand. Not ideal on a horse, but it was something he had done before. The first blow hit, but so did the Kingsguards. Lyonel groaned and buried his axe between the horses eyes.

He had to jump from his own horse as the other came crashing down and this wasn´t how he liked to end it, especially not after months of looking for a good chance to fight a Kingsguard, but he couldn´t help it. Maekar was more important.

The Laughing Storm had completely taken over at that point. He spied Maekar fighting against his brother Baelor and ran to join them. His heart was beating through his armor, the hate for Maekar burning through his veins. Ours is the Fury, he thought and so it was.

He hit Maekar in the chest and the Targaryen turned to hit him. It was like a battle, no, it was a battle. He, Maekar and Baelor, charging and hitting like madmen, weapons clashing, battle trance. Maekar was alone, in the weaker position, but he managed to give his brother some good hits and suddenly one of the spikes crashed with full force on the Laughing Storms knee.

Lyonel crashed into the mud. That was one of the weakest parts of his plate and it fucking hurt like hell even though the hit hadn´t broken his leg.

He saw red.

Ours is the Fury.

The Laughing Storm got to his feet.

The battle axe smashed down on Maekar gorget...

...only that Baelor suddenly was in the way.

The crack was so loud and sounded so fatal, Lyonel froze for one moment. The wrong prince! Seven Hells, he had hit the wrong prince!

But no one seemed to realize or care, including Baelor, who was pressing Maekar harder then ever. All eyes were on the two Fossoways hacking each other to pieces right in front of the dais and, oh, Aerion and the hedge… Dunk, who had apparently given that prince a good beating.

Lyonel turned back to resume the attack, feeling slightly guilty. Well, it could not have been that bad, if Baelor kept fighting. Things like that just happened in a tourney, no need to be nervous.

He didn´t even reach Maekar again, before Aerion surrendered.

Beric and a bunch of other people Lyonel didn´t want to see right now received him at his tent. He slumped down on a chair, shouted for wine and cursed when his knee started throbbing even more intense, with the heat of the battle all gone. He couldn´t say how he felt. He was distracted, by hearing the crack it had made when he had hit Baelor in his head, over and over again. Well, he had given the wrong prince a headache, but it wouldn´t be bad, he told himself, pouring down the wine at one swallow. It wouldn´t be…

Shouts.

Screams.

He turned his head in time to see Baelor fall to the ground with half his head missing.

Apparently it was really fucking bad.

He had killed the crown price of Westeros, he suddenly realized. The crown prince and about the only prince he didn´t hate.

Everyone was screaming, shouting, crying, wailing. Only the Laughing Storm, who never missed a chance to be the loudest man around was sitting in his chair silent and pale as a ghost. But no one looked at him.

The next day Lyonel Baratheon was walking Ashford Castle like a ghost. He didn´t want to go to see Maekar, it was the absolutely last thing he wanted, but the prince was in charge now (he had put him in charge!) and Lyonel Baratheon couldn´t just slide away. Not now.

No one had brought up his name in connection with Baelors death. He had sat in his chair for what felt like hours, waiting for someone to point at him, shouting that the Lord of Storms End was a murderer, that he had killed the crown prince. No one had pointed at him though. For some reason everyone thought it had been Maekar.

And Lyonel Baratheon walked away like in a dream, ordered more wine and drank and drank and drank, till he had finally passed out.

Maekar turned abruptly when Lyonel opened the door. He had cried, it was plain to see and Lyonel found himself oddly shocked about that.

On the bed of Lord Ashford a motionless figure was lying. Baelor Breakspear, dead, dead, dead. Lyonel froze.

They had tried to put the skull together again and that somehow made it look a thousand times worse. Like they believed laying the pieces of a broken skull beside each other would make everything just fine again.

"You" There was no anger in Maekars voice, no reproach, no emotion at all. He had broken the prince he had wanted to break after all. "What do you want, Baratheon?"

Lyonels mind was empty, but he heard himself say: "Your leave to return to Storms End, Mylord. Looks like the tourney is over" Maekar looked at him with empty eyes, "Do what you want and leave me. Now!"

Lyonel turned to go, but at the door he couldn´t resist the urge to look back one last time. Maekar was slumped in his chair, his head bent over his brothers corpse. He looked small and pitiful, not at all like the pricky prince Lyonel couldn´t stand and he felt his stomach twist.

Maekar thought he had he killed his own brother.

Thought himself a kinslayer, because of Lyonel.

And he did not deserve it, Lyonel realized, standing at the door.

No one deserved that.

No one.

Maekar lifted his head. "What do you want Baratheon? If you want to say something, say it quickly" Lyonel opened his mouth.

I killed your brother. It wasn´t you, it was me. I´m sorry, I didn´t mean to. It was an accident.

"What should I have to say to that? Wasn´t me who killed my own brother, kinslayer", the Laughing Storm snorted and walked out of the room.

Lyonel nearly threw up when the door closed behind him.


End file.
